Silver Mist
by Thorn Dew'Pearled
Summary: Memories of the past come back to haunt, yet some memories will become reality *under construction due to grammatical errors as the computer decided to mess around with the story and therefore ruined it*


The Inescapable Plague of the Author's Note (please read to avoid Inevitable Epidemic): Hello Fanfiction.net'ers! *Waves regally and curtsies* Alright, alright, save your applause *crickets chirping*. The only reason I am trying to inject humour, albeit pathetically weak humour, into the AUTHOR'S NOTE *Dun dun dun!*, is because I found what I have written to be severely depressing to the faint hearted. Also, I must warn you that I fall under the category of -15's, and - being a mere preadolescent to some respects - seem to have forced a lot of the pain that comes with teenagedom into my writing. Also, I must admit that yet again a character has kicked the bucket at an author's hands, and he happens to be a very popular character among the female population *ahem*. While I am female I see nothing very special in any of them, aside from the fact one has bleached hair and a sense of direction, four have hairy feet and apparently worms, two have a problem with body hair and most likely personal hygiene, one has an attitude problem and a BIG axe to make up for lack of height and personality, and the last is a man on a suicide mission with a large stick. (Alright, I'm only joking so please refrain from pelting me with rotten fruit or anything hard that will hurt. I'm still an irresponsible child!) Phew! With all that said, bear in mind this is my first fic on this website so I'm still a newbie, enjoy *evil laughter here*, and any criticism's will be welcome! Flames will be used to reduce the non- existant gas bill and burn any enemies, and I promise I'll never write an author's note this . space wasting ever again! Oh, and will involve a very- much G rated tiny little bit of slash, namely a confession of love made in a moment of confusion.  
  
Silver Mists Chapter 1: Under the Cloak of Despair  
  
~¬  
  
For many weeks now, Minas Tirith had remained in the throes of despair. The King had been taken ill, and so left his throne to attend his waning health. The King Elessar, for his worsening ailments, rested in a room far removed from the stress of his royal office. For many a day now he had remained within the confines of those walls, protected from the harsh outside world that cried for both his blood and his judgement. The noble folk of his court were growing worried, uncertain of how long they could hold the monarchy in the ill king's stead, and more troubling concerns were aroused when the royal doctors confessed that they knew not of what sickness had taken the king. Times were growing desperate, and the kingdom was slowly coming undone without the wise words and swift hand of Elessar, the Elfstone.  
  
~¬  
  
'Sire, will you not rise?' Vainly the servant pleaded with the silent form of his lord, resting unmoving beneath the bedclothes. For a long while all was silent, save the noise of the city folk below. 'I have not the strength nor the will to rise,' the king muttered at length, his voice hoarse from many days of idleness. 'My solace lies in dreams. Leave an ailing man to his peace.' Unable to challenge the king's wishes, the servant bowed and reluctantly left, closing the door softly behind him as he departed. It was with a heavy heart that he returned to his work; he knew like many others that should Elessar remain in this strange sullen mood, his life would dwindle ever faster until he no longer dwelt among them.  
  
~¬  
  
The Queen Arwen reigned in her husband's absence, and while ever fair she shone, the heavy burden of state affairs was slowly weakening her. The crown to which she had been bound was an encumbrance she feared she could not bear for long, but bravely forward she struggled. Her quiet determination both joyed and saddened the courtiers, for they drew strength from her confidence, but she was failing in her attempts to hold the people together. Without her, Minas Tirith would have fallen into anarchy long ago, but despite her efforts anarchy was the path it had chosen to take. People were failing to recognise their monarchs, and had taken it upon themselves to govern, wandering towards the demise of them all. Now the queen was seated proudly upon her oaken throne, alone for the throne beside her no longer recieved the king. The chief advisor had placed himself to her right, his stiff stature, high collar and gaunt face giving him the misleading appearance of a sour and formidable man. His name was Avartil, and he had been a meager man of peasantry until the ranger Aragorn succeeded the throne and took the title of Elessar for the gift bestowed upon him by the elves. Avartil's respectable position hid his humble beginnings, and he had taken to the court with great ease: it was for his tireless efforts that Minas Tirith had become fair and orderly since Elessar's rise had come to pass. Arwen attained a small amount of comfort from his presence, knowing he would never abandon her to lie helpless by the wayside. 'Thank you,' she whispered to him, and Avartil smiled, reaching across to clasp the soft hand that clutched the armrest in nervous anticipation. This day they were to welcome a great company, their nobility far surpassing that of the kings of old; for they were Silvan elves who hailed from the Grey Havens, and had requested an audience with the king and queen of Minas Tirith to talk of strange happenings in both their land and Middle- Earth. In the letter that had foretold of their coming, there was a mention of a 'rising darkness' and 'a dark tide'. Arwen had not understood them, but evil dwelt within the very letters that spelt those words of dread. And now she waited, patient and with perfect composure as befitted a queen. Avartil clasped his hands at his front, watching the doors at the entrance to the chamber with narrowed eyes. The song of crystal trumpets and great horns winding from the walls announced the arrival of those they had expected for long hours. Arwen drew a deep shuddering breath. Avartil leaned over, his mouth close to her ear, and said softly, 'Have faith, my queen. Have faith.'  
  
~¬  
  
The dull aching of bitter memories continued to haunt him, all these years after. The pain of the horrific tragedy he had been so unfortunate as to bear witness to was still fresh; incurable and unyielding. And now ever more so, for the time had drawn near when the event had occured, and he would not be allowed peace while the hours dragged on. He would never be allowed peace, it eluded him as the shadow eluded the light, as relief eluded those who begged for its mercy. His strength was gone, stolen away by those hateful memories, stolen just as his passion for life had been. Stolen, and murdered. There was nothing left for him in this war-wearied world, nothing but the pain of sadness, and the hurtfulness of spite, and greed, and other sins that were the nature of Men. Tears fought their way from his clouded eyes, leaving a glistening trail of grief upon his rough cheeks where they trailed and fell inevitably to their doom, as he felt he was. Why was it that everything that had been good in his life had been taken from him, and robbed him of a joy that he had known only when he had possessed that goodness? Was all that he strove to accomplish far from his reach, and tried in vain? He had long lost his grasp on the world, and it now mocked him behind his back and in his face; striking him where it hurt the most, his heart, and laughing at his pain. A desperate hand tightened its grip on the soft feather pillow, and racking sobs erupted in the helpless man's chest as he fought to rise above his despair, but was once again swept beneath it to drown in misery. A cruel injustice he thought it, but life was the curse he suffered. And the one antidote that could release him was that which he feared most for its darkness: death. Had it not been this way he could remained that point of strength that he had once been, but his strength was his weakness, and now it had deserted him. Had that one life been spared, his own life would have been so much the richer for that gift. They all took pity on him, and he hated himself for it. Sympathy, he loathed it, for it took from him his valour and dignity in the eyes of his people. He was a mere shadow of his former self, one who delved deep in grievous thoughts in spite of himself, one who could no longer demand respect, for his indignities allowed him none. King Elessar, once the lowly Aragorn the Ranger, was his own worst enemy.  
  
~¬  
  
Arwen rested on the velvet covers of her bed, one hand lying where the warm weight of her Estel would once have slept. With the reassurances of Avartil, she was confident she had wielded her power to excellence and impressed and pleased her guests. They had now taken to the north, riding for her former home of Imladris, where her beloved brothers Elladan and Elrohir, and her grandsire Celeborn had taken her father Elrond's place. Her tired eyes were heavy, but with a will she stood gracefully and made her way through the door. Her husband was her top priority, and caring for his wellbeing was all she wished, but his dwindling health, brought about by this mystery illness, was slowly taking him away from her, and she was afraid that soon she would be left with nothing. He was of mortal kind, always she had known that, and her own life she had placed in his hands; but she had never thought that he may be taken from her sooner then age allowed. Smoothing down her gown, she went to Aragorn's place of rest where he lay in the throes of grief; and she lay herself down beside him and held him close, singing softly in her soothing elvish tongue and kissing his furrowed brow as she lovingly carressed his dark, tousled hair. The fading rays of the golden evening were cast through the window, and across the sleeping forms of the king and his wife, Aragorn and Arwen, lovers bound together for eternity.  
  
~¬  
  
No laughter was there to be heard in the empty corridors of Bag End. No raucous singing and joyful dancing. A spell, it seemed, had woven its way into the very earth that the dwelling had been delved into. The three sat in silence around the table, wreathed in dense clouds of smoke blown from tight lips. Sam cupped his hands around his mug, his downcast eyes reflected in the amber depths of his tea. 'It was this day, wasn't it?' said Pippin softly, his pipe lying abandoned beside him. 'Aye,' replied his cousin Merry, and abruptly raised a hand to his face, drawing on all his willpower to keep from weeping. Sam reached across and placed a comforting hand on the distraught Brandybuck's shoulder. 'Don't force yourself to be strong if it's not real strength,' he murmured. 'It never did a body any good to leave it all inside until it just burst out.' And Merry took the advice, and let himself go then and there, crying as if his tears were the vast ocean and would never be spent. Pippin couldn't hold his tears back any longer either - the pain was too much for him and he wept without shame. Only Sam's eyes remained dry, as if he could not show such intense emotion, but inside he was breaking; he dared not show it. 'A cruel fate that was,' he said quietly, staring into the flames that danced in the kitchen hearth. 'It seems to hurt more as time goes on. It won't leave.' Pippin was the first to recover, wiping his red, swollen eyes on his tear- soaked sleeve. 'It was truly unfair,' he said in between sobs. 'Such decency in folk is hard to come by these days, it just upped and disappeared to make way for all this trouble.' Merry took a deep breath, taking a puff on his pipe to calm himself, and a trembling smile came suddenly onto his lips. 'But that's what he was. If there was a person who you couldn't sway with arguments, or ever dislike, it was him.' 'It is strange that I should feel so much grief over one I was never close to,' confided Pippin, his brow crossed over with confusion. 'Though maybe I was but I could never admit it to myself, like I was trying to hide from him.' 'I think - in truth - we all were,' said Sam, taking a sip of his tea and finding it soothed his nerves pleasantly. 'But to me it always seemed as if he was beyond me; he made me feel so ... so ... small, I suppose.' 'How so Sam?' 'I - I truly don't know, it just felt like he was always smiling down on me, but that kind of gesture from one so ... high up, if you take my meaning, made my own seem so unmeaningful.' 'I understand, I felt that way too.' 'But he didn't let little differences get in the way, did he? So why are we sitting here like a lot of old sops talking about how we felt? What about how he made us feel? You two speak of what was in your head, it wasn't his fault.' Pippin turned his head to gaze out of the open latticed window, where the crown of the sun was descending below the horizon to make way for the night, and the evening sky was receding with it. Slowly the deep blue of night was taking over, chasing away the warmth of the day colours. With a sigh, he rose and pushed his chair beneath the table. 'I think I shall leave now,' he said, fetching his coat from the hall stand. 'Diamond does worry so when I return home late; that Menegilda Brackenfern has put all sorts of strange ideas in her head. Bandits in the Shire, there have not been any thefts reported since Frodo's departure. Mayhap I shall come by tomorrow, and we shall see just what we can do.' Merry saw the sense in Pippin's words, and bade Sam farewell as he left with his cousin. Sam took his tea over to the window, awaiting his wife Rosie and their daughter Elanor. They were paying Rosie's father and brothers a visit to apologise for their 'unintended ingnorance of family, we have just been busy of late and have not had the time.' A lone star was twinkling high in the heaven's, and Sam's turned his eyes upon it, smiling. It seemed to have been placed there in remembrance of the lost one; a beautiful individual as he that was lost had been. Leaning against the sill, his head in his hands, Sam murmured to the night breeze, 'Farewell to you, Legolas Greenleaf. Farewell to you.'  
  
~¬  
  
Right, so how did I do? Is this -15 year old going to make her mark in the world of fanfiction or what? To those of you who don't agree with my angst/pain/horribly grievous suffering genre, fear not! I am a very versatile author and can adapt to most genre's except for slash; though I don't have a problem with it I am uncomfortable about writing it, so no offence to any slash writers out there. I do enjoy a little bit of homosexuality in LotR every now and again, when my sick sense of humour needs to be fuelled. Thank you, any reviews/criticisms/flames/exclamations of utter horror will be welcome! 


End file.
